After it All
by L'il Senzu
Summary: It had only taken two years for him to lose everything. Mark fic. Heavy angst. Character deaths. PostRent. No idea where this came from,but it was an interesting outcome.


After it All

After it all, after everything, it had ended so fast. Two years, that had been all it had took. Just two years. He knew that to some people, two years may feel like a long time, but to him it had been a blink. In two years he had lost…everything. Sometimes he wondered if it had taken longer if it would have been better, but he doubted it.

Mimi went first. She lasted three days after her 'miraculous' recovery on the steel table. Everyone said that a part of Roger had died with her. Secretly, Mark had wondered if all of Roger hadn't died with her. He couldn't have had much left that what April and withdrawal had taken from him.

Eight months later Collins had gotten sick. He didn't hold on for very long. He had his Angel to go to. Three weeks and he was in the ground.

Exactly ten months after Collins died, Maureen and Joanne moved out to California where Joanne was being offered a good position in an excellent firm; a lot of pro bono work, she couldn't say no.

Roger took to drifting around the loft. He had no better description for it. He played sometimes, but seemingly less and less. He smoked a great deal, and wrote in one of his many notebooks, but mostly he just…drifted around silently. Mark wasn't quite surprised when he started packing. Less than five months.

Sometime in December, two years since Mimi passed, a knock on the door had awakened Mark from his afternoon nap. Benny stood on the other side, immediately speaking of mending their old friendship, of Mark going over to spend the holidays with him and Allison, of a bunch of things Mark didn't actually hear because he was too concentrated on finding one of the bigger empty bottles of liquor he had around. Benny didn't come back again after that bottle had flown through the air and just barely missed his face.

Seven months later Mark sat up on the roof, a cigarette between his fingers and his camera laying quite abandoned next to him. Taking a long drag, he watched the smoke trail from his lips in uninterested attention. Suddenly a voice startled him out of his quiet reverie.

"I thought you quit."

"Roger." He breathed. Roger smiled.

"Hi."

An instant of silence passed between them before Mark was on his feet and pulling him into a fierce hug. They stayed like that forever it seemed, although only a few minutes in reality.

Ten minutes later, Mark and Roger sat on the edge of the roof, gazing out onto the beautiful, grimy streets. "So what's up with this?" Roger asked again, motioning to the new cigarette in the filmmaker's hand.

Mark shrugged. "I started up again not too long after you left." He gave no further explanation.

There was silence for a moment before Mark said softly, "You never called. Not once."

Roger nodded slowly. "I'm sorry." He said simply.

"I didn't even know where you were." Mark couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice.

Roger was silent for a moment before saying, "Jesus, look at you Mark. You haven't been eating."

Mark smiled a little and shrugged. "I work washing dishes at a little café downtown. I don't get many hours and I get minimum wage, so money's not terrific. Sometimes it comes between cigarettes or food…guess what wins."

Roger regarded him for a moment. "So what money are you using to buy all that booze? Don't think I missed all those empty bottles downstairs."

Mark looked down for a second then smiled guiltily. "Booze actually comes before both food and cigarettes."

Roger shook his head and laughed. "Well, I think I came back just in time. What a fucking lifestyle, Cohen."

Mark laughed a little with him, not saying just how good of timing Roger had considering what he had been about to do, before stopping, suddenly afraid. "You're not going to leave again, are you?" he asked without looking at him, his eyes planted firmly on the ground.

He felt the fear grow when he got no response. "Roger?" he looked up and was startled to find no one there. "Roger!" Getting up, he looked around but saw no one else on the roof. "Roger!" he screamed, some part of him already knowing that he wouldn't hear him; some part of him knowing that he wasn't there… that he had never actually been there.

An hour later Mark sat on the edge of the roof, a now empty bottle of vodka next to him and his camera in his hands. He'd looked, but any sort of Roger, real or imaginary, hadn't been in the loft. Mark leaned over the edge of the roof a little, his breath coming in short puffs, his heart racing, sweat collecting on the back of his neck along with a strange cold chill of what was not quite fear. Taking a deep breath, he let go.

The fall was surprisingly fast, the impact hard but not nearly as violent as he'd imagined. The sound was distant, but still startling, his stomach dropping as he watched the pieces shatter and separate, scattering over the alley. There wouldn't be enough of the camera left to fix, he was sure of it. As the pieces settled, a smile fell upon his face. His heart was calm, his breathing normal once again. Just like the alley, a calm had fallen about him.

With this same calm air, Mark stood and jumped.


End file.
